


Flames of Truth

by Anonymous



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:28:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27138694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Amestris, 12th century. The country is slowly recovering from a decade of suffering.Roy Mustang is a Paladin at the service of the Cult of Truth. His mission is simple: to purify the world of heretics through fire and faith. Mostly through fire, as far as he is concerned.All it takes is an itinerant merchant who is a little too talkative, a population that is quick to gossip and a touch of fanaticism for Roy Mustang to set out in search of the infidel who has dared to practise Alchemy, the sacred art of the Goddess, without authorization, with the firm intention of punishing him, whatever it may take.He might meet a heretic who is a little more combative than usual.
Relationships: Edward Elric/Roy Mustang
Comments: 7
Kudos: 27
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Les Flammes de la Vérité](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26343520) by [FlowTralala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlowTralala/pseuds/FlowTralala). 



> Here goes nothing. I'm translating my third language into my second here, but the fic is so good I had to give it a shot!

  
**FIRST PART: THROUGH FIRE**

_He who lives in ignorance cannot be blamed for his sins, for without teaching man is a beast and a beast cares not for good or evil. He who feigns ignorance to avoid punishment, on the other hand, sins doubly - for is there any worse sacrilege than that of lying?"_ \- Forgiveness through Truth, sermon by Cardinal Pride 

* * *

  
**Resembool, 1147**

The sun slowly set behind the mountains, leaving its last rays to graze the bare stone of the peaks and play between the pines stubbornly clinging to the steep slopes. A veil of mist had taken over the sky, diluting the bright colours of dusk, leaving only a faded palette of reds and golds on the dull blue canvas. The late afternoon was still tepid, warmed by the fumes of the ploughed earth and the sweat of the late workers still busy in the fields.

An illusory calm seemed to freeze time, enclosing the small village of Resembool in a bubble of eternity, but the apparent stillness was only the reflection of a long habit, of a well-oiled routine that dissipated the feverishness of mid-autumn. In the barns, people were busy storing the last harvests, piling up the sacks of grain and dislodging the rats in the straw. For the first time in nearly four years, the harvests had been good and the villagers were finally looking forward to the winter with relative serenity.

The past seven years had been hard - more than hard. The people, already biting the bullet due to the merciless crusade launched by the Cult, had suffered a deadly epidemic that had decimated the population. Considerably weakened, the country had been unable to cope with the freezing winter that followed and an endless period of famine had shattered the fragile balance that had preceded the war. Resembool, isolated in the narrow valley between the mountains, had endured as best it could despite its proximity - as the crow flies - to Ishval. Today, while the rest of Amestris was slowly recovering from its wounds, the small village was already sensing the return of its former prosperity - tinged with a dull bitterness that even the youngest were able to feel. Nothing would ever be the same again, but lamenting did not grow wheat, squash and apples. All that mattered was work, the slow cycle of the seasons and the desire that there should be no more damage.

  
The temperature and the brightness dropped rapidly. In the freshly ploughed field, an old draught horse with a dusty coat was placidly observing the young man with his hands deep in the earth. The furrows seemed to tremble in the light breeze that stirred up the Percheron's mane and the boy's loose hair.

"Hey, kid!" A deep voice called out suddenly from the path that bordered the field.

The kneeling worker straightened up and vaguely wiped his hands on his trousers, without any noticeable improvement in terms of cleanliness. He was young, maybe a dozen years old, maybe a little more, but for the village he was no longer really a child. He had gone through the same ordeals as the others and as such was treated like any other villager, though with a little more compassion than the older ones.

"I've finished, Curtis, I'm coming!" he replied, grabbing the horse's guides to take him out of the field.

The man who had called out to him waited patiently and rubbed his head affectionately when the young man reached his level. The difference in size between them was even more pronounced when they were close to each other. The one called Curtis had the build of a mirrored cabinet, while the boy was rather small and particularly frail.

"I always wonder how you manage to plough the whole field on your own when every time I look after you you are napping on Ferdi's back."

The boy smiled a satisfied and sarcastic smile and pushed back his mane, which must have been blonde under the dust and mud.

"It's because you don't look at the right time, Curtis."

Behind them, as they slowly made their way up the path towards the village stable, the horse neighed weakly as if to corroborate the young man's words.

"Don't be cheeky, kid. You're lucky I'm not Izumi, she would have already given you an earbashing."

The boy's smile disappeared in favour of a painful grimace. Izumi was Curtis's wife, and although she was a gentle, motherly woman, she was best known for her implacable severity with children who lacked politeness. Whether they were five, ten or twenty years old, the young people of the village would spin softly when she began to frown.

"Is Al is at the blacksmith's shop today?" Asked the boy eventually, dodging the thorny subject of his good manners.

"No, he has gone to help in the attics. There isn't anyone like him to carry sacks of grain! Except for me, of course," added Curtis with a falsely boastful wink. "Go on, take Fat Ferdi home, get cleaned up and join your brother."

They had reached the big building that housed the village's livestock. Although the animals belonged to different people, they were all in the same place to make feeding and caring for them easier. There weren't enough people left to look after their own fields and animals, so they shared the tasks as best they could to keep the village afloat.

"And Ed?" said Curtis as the boy pushed open the sliding barn door.

"Hmm?"

"Tomorrow, you'd better be at dawn at old Mathieu's house. His roof isn't going to repair itself and the weather will soon get worse."

Ed nodded and disappeared into the building. His eyes quickly got used to the darkness under the thatched roof. As it was almost dark outside, the difference in brightness was much less than during the day. The usual smell of hot straw and cattle filled his nostrils as the boy guided the horse to his stall. He brushed it meticulously to rid it of the dust and sweat of the day, checked that there was no lack of water or hay and left, closing the plank fence behind him. He had awkwardly engraved "Ferdinand" on it a few years earlier and the few villagers who had noticed the inscription had laughed at him - of the fifty or so people who lived in Resembool, less than ten knew how to read and write. Ed had ignored the critics. At the time he had said that at least Fat Ferdi could be sure that his house would not be stolen. That the old Percheron couldn't read either was indifferent to him. It was a matter of principle; that name on the door gave a bit of soul to the little square of floor covered with sawdust and straw.

Ed gently trailed his gloved hand over the inscription. One of the "N's", drawn upside down, gave him a wistful smile amid memories of learning to read. He reluctantly pulled himself away from his contemplation and left the stable. After the warm air maintained by the animals, the freshness of the outside air surprised him and he accelerated his pace, stopping for a moment at the well to briefly wash his face. Night had fallen completely and only the moonlight guided him along the path leading to the little house on the edge of the village.

The boy took off his muddy clogs by the door and left them on the porch, entering the house barefoot. In fact, only his right foot was bare; the left, as well as his ankle and calf, which disappeared under his knee breeches, were carefully wrapped in a strip of fine wool which must have been white a century or two earlier.

"Ed!" Exclaimed a youthful voice with a strange resonance.

"Hello, Al," smiled Ed as an imposing armour of metal and leather blocked his way through the narrow hallway of the entrance.

A small laugh bounced off the metal walls of the helmet.

"I lifted two bags of grain at once today. Izumi said I would end up being the strongest in the village."

Ed gave his brother a slight punch in the shoulder as an encouragement. The bags of grain probably weighed as much as Ed himself and it usually took two people to lift them.

"You're already the strongest, Al."

"Ed, you come home at this hour?" Pinako's dry little voice greeted him, interrupting their exchange.

"I was bringing in Fat Ferdi, Granny," he excused himself, kissing the cheek the old woman was holding out to him.

Pinako wasn't really his grandmother, but it didn't matter that they weren't related by blood. Since the disappearance of their parents, she had taken in and raised Ed and his brother Al just like she did her real granddaughter Winry. 

"Now go and sit at the table. And take off your gloves before you eat!" she said to him as he rushed to the heavy solid wood table in the kitchen.

Ed obeyed without protest and took off his muddy gloves, returning to lay them on his clogs by the door. As he did every evening when he got rid of them, a vague pinch in his heart made him contemplate his hands. As long as they were covered by these gloves of leather so worn and softened that it formed a second skin, he could forget that only the left hand was made of flesh. His right arm, like his left leg, was tightly bandaged from the shoulder to the fingertips, completely covered by the cloth. With the exception of the three people with whom he shared his home, all of Resembool was convinced that Ed was hiding the same thing under his bandages as Al did under his armour: the unsightly traces left by the smallpox that had ravaged the population nearly four years earlier. Many of the villagers were hiding the scars of this tragedy, even though no one but Al was so disfigured as to be completely veiled.

As usual, Ed was drawn from his reflections by his adopted sister who came to embrace him.

"You're covered in mud," she said, wrinkling her nose.

"And you're covered in soot," he replied ritually with a sneer.

Pinako pushed them out of the way to bring a heavy pot to the table. The three children settled down in their usual places, obediently waiting for their food. There was no plate in front of Al, but he sat down anyway with his siblings, dominating the table with his unbelievable stature. 

"Ed, you should be more careful," grumbled the old healer. "People talk, you know? There are many who feel that you're not just ploughing with Fat Ferdi and a real ploughshare."

Ed shrugged his shoulders and held out his plate.

"I'm being careful, grandmother. And the bastard is too old to plough anything, especially old Mathieu's fields. His land is very hard, this year it's easier to tr-" 

"It's too dry," nodded Pinako, interrupting firmly. "And I've already told you not to say that word. Don't get caught, with all the trouble we go through to make sure you and Al are safe," she concluded.

Ed nodded, looking vaguely contrite. Granny was right, of course. It wasn't a good idea to practice alchemy anywhere and in the presence of anyone, especially when you were already considered eccentric by the rest of the village. It was better to keep a low profile; even in such a remote area, the Cult had eyes and ears. Even though the winter months were long and lonely, under the thick layer of snow that covered the village, the arrival of summer also meant the visit of outsiders and with them the risk of being noticed by the emissaries of the Church.

The fine weather brought with it troops of itinerant merchants, carrying in their convoys foodstuffs from the other regions of Amestris and news from the four corners of the country. Each summer, Ed and Al only partook in half of these gatherings. While Ed could easily hide his damaged limbs, Al was always considered a curiosity.

It was unusual to wear armour rather than covering clothes and a veil to hide an unsightly appearance, but the armour itself was also unusual - not to mention the fact that it was adapted to an adult's morphology and not that of an eight-year-old child. It was nothing like the studded pieces of leather usually worn by mercenaries accompanying merchant caravans, more like a knight's harness made of riveted and articulated metal plates. On the breastplate a strange symbol reminiscent of the sun was engraved, the coat of arms of an unknown army or nation. Such an ornament in such an incongruous place inevitably attracted attention and the two brothers avoided gatherings when such strangers settled in Resembool.

They could not simply disappear, at the risk of attracting the suspicion of the other villagers, but kept a low profile and rarely attended the festivities that the presence of troubadours and entertainers brought. As the years passed, however, their vigilance waned. The merchants always had some amazing stories to tell and it was common knowledge that half of them were pure inventions. As long as no one learned the true secret of Alphonse's armour, they would be just another anecdote among many.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

_"The knights are the armed arm of the Cult; they are the representation of its strength, honour and inflexibility. They must, at all times, respect and uphold the immutable laws of Truth. Even more venerable than the simple knights are the Paladins who have dedicated their lives to the Goddess. They are the only ones chosen by her Power; he who dares to practice the sacred art of Alchemy without the Goddess' blessing is the most dangerous, the most execrable of heretics_. "- speech of the Archbishop to the aspiring knights

  
  


* * *

**Liore, 1151**

  
  


The blazing sun that had been beating down on the earth without respite since mid-morning made Roy Mustang regret the strict principles that pushed him to wear his armour under all circumstances. He had the distinct impression of boiling under the plates that covered his body and only his ample white cloak prevented him from being simply burned by the metal that enveloped him. Absently he envied the leather armour of his travelling companion.

“Let's stop here,” he suggested as they walked past an inn near the edge of town.

Next to him, Riza Hawkeye stopped her horse as an answer. The streets of Liore were deserted in the hot mid-afternoon. No one ventured outside in such heat and only the clacking of irons on the cobblestones and the buzzing of flies disturbed the silence that was almost as overwhelming as the temperature. The two knights set foot on the ground and led their horses to the back of the building, where they found a groom having a nap in the shade of the almost empty stalls. The boy awoke with a start from his half-sleep and glanced at the imposing silhouette of Roy Mustang. He leapt to his feet and bowed as deeply as his flexibility allowed him.

“Good morning, my lords!” he exclaimed hastily. May I take care of your horses? Beautiful animals, for sure! 

Mustang handed him the reins of his steed without loosening his lips or even looking at him and turned away, his cape twirling behind him. On the thick white cloth was embroidered in gold thread the emblem of the Cult. The boy opened his eyes and bowed again.

“It's not often that we see real knights around here, my lord”! He exclaimed admiringly, addressing Riza.

She pushed her hood back, revealing her face and startling a gasp of surprise out of the stable boy.

“I mean, my lady!” He corrected hastily.

“Title doesn’t matter, as long as you pay me the same respect,” she replied in a neutral voice, handing him the reins of her own horse. “Take care of our horses. We'll stay here tonight. See that they are saddled and ready to leave at dawn,” she ordered calmly, throwing a coin at him.

He caught it mid-flight and bowed again. Riza rushed over to Roy. The knight felt his companion's gaze on him and, without looking back at her, he knew what she was thinking. He must have looked bad - but who would be fresh and fit after a day riding under such merciless sunshine? He hated the heat, ever since ... ever since. And even then, all they had done today was travel, there had been no need to fight. Ignoring Riza's concerns, Roy pushed open the door and welcomed the coolness inside as a blessing. The room was dark and almost deserted, the shutters drawn to protect it from the sweltering summer heat. Behind the counter at the back of the wide room a man was leaning over a thick register, a threadbare quill in his left hand.

He raised his eyes and squinted them as he looked at the new arrivals. Roy let Riza close the door behind them and approached the owner, who bowed respectfully - though not as deeply as the young man in the stable.

“If it isn't the Flame and the Hawk,” he greeted them in a rough voice. “What can I do for you, my lords?”

Roy nodded imperceptibly. He had never been in this inn before, but there were few inhabitants of Amestris who didn't know about the Flame and the Hawk, especially in towns of a certain size like Liore. He had nothing against these nicknames that the people had given them. They were marks of respect and admiration - almost a due, in fact.

“Room and board, clean water for washing,” he listed.

The man nodded and motioned to a woman who wiped the free tables in the room. She approached and bowed to the knights.

“Please, follow me, my lords, if you will.”

They followed her down a narrow wooden staircase and went up to the first floor. The woman guided them to a room with two beds, a large wooden tub which was currently empty and an unlit fireplace.

“This is our best room, my lords," she said. “Is it suitable for you?”

Roy nodded his head as Riza turned to their host.

“Our luggage is with our horses in the stable.”

“I will bring it up here immediately, my lady.”

“Also bring us some water. No need to fill the bathtub, a pair of buckets will do.”

The maid bowed and left them alone. Roy sighed heavily and untied the brooch that held his cape. He hung the cloth on the hook on the wall near the door and stood still for a moment, lost in contemplation of the dust that tarnished his armour.

“Lord Mustang?” Riza called gently from behind him.

He sighed again and turned towards her, an indefinable expression on his face.

“We are alone, Riza. No need to be formal.”

She nodded with a contrite smile and approached him, beginning to undo the various loops and ties that held Roy's armour in place.

“I'm always afraid someone will hear me and reproach me for acting so intimate with you," she admitted as she carefully stacked the metal pieces on the floor.

“I'm the only one who has the right to blame you and I'm asking you to do the opposite. At least in private.”

With his gauntlets off, he was able to complete the removal of his breastplate and leggings himself, while Riza got rid of her own protection. As they were facing each other, wearing only simple travel clothes, the maid returned with the stable lad and another boy. The three of them were carrying knights’ luggage and the buckets of water they had asked for. They quietly put everything in the room and left.

Mustang pushed his shirt over his head, keeping only his shoes on, and sat on the floor facing one of the buckets. Using the linen that the maid had taken care to bring at the same time, he rubbed his face and torso, savouring the freshness of the water on his clammy skin. Next to him, Riza did the same. She had always been his squire from the time he was knighted and had continued to work and travel with him even after she herself had become a knight. So they had abandoned all modesty towards each other long ago.

Once Roy had cooled down, he rummaged through his pack to get a clean shirt and put it on without waiting to be dry. The light linen fabric was breathable enough not to stick to his damp skin and instead helped to maintain the freshness that was still there. The knight then used the remaining water to dust off his armour. Once clean, the pieces were spread out on the floor of the room and Roy picked out a small leather flask and a piece of felted wool from his bag. He poured a few drops of the precious oil on the wool and began to meticulously polish the metal plates and especially the joints. Next to him, Riza had given similar, though faster, treatment to her own equipment; she was now busy inspecting the string of her bow.

When he was satisfied with his work, Roy let his armour dry and got back on his feet with a growl.

“I'm going to get some sleep,” he announced flatly. “Wake me up when you're hungry.”

Without waiting for an answer, he lay down on one of the beds and closed his eyes.

  
  


He woke up with a start when a hand was placed on his shoulder and reflexively pulled the dagger he was wearing at his waist. Another hand grabbed his armed wrist.

“It's only me,” Riza's voice whispered.

Semi-darkness had invaded the room and with it an almost acceptable temperature. The archer had opened the shutters wide and the warm air of the evening wandered through the room, softly playing with the capes that were hanging limply near the door. Roy breathed a sigh of relief and sheathed his blade.

“The sun has just passed behind the mountains,” the young woman continued, stepping aside to give Roy time to get up. “A good meal would do us good.”

The knight nodded his head and rubbed his face, to get rid of the lingering sleepiness. His dreams had been dark, as usual, but he was exhausted enough by the journey that even his nightmares had not woken him up. He ran one hand through his hair, pushing it backwards without success - his dark locks fell immediately back into his eyes. Outside, through the window, he could see the dark blue sky of the early evening; their room looked to the east, and he knew that, in the distance, without him being able to distinguish it, the desert was already plunged into darkness.

“Have you slept?” He asked his companion, who shrugged her shoulders.

“Dozed. I preferred to make sure you slept well. I'll rest tonight.”

Roy nodded without answering. Riza always showed a kindness towards him that touched him deeply, while at the same time bringing up a dull uneasiness in him. She wasn't so gentle with him without reason. How many nights had she spent at his bedside, ready to soothe him when he woke up screaming? Too many. Far too many. Roy repressed those memories deep in his mind and stood up. He took the heavy, dark blue tunic that served as his uniform when he wasn't wearing his armour from his pack and put it on slowly. As an emissary of the Cult, he had to be recognizable in all circumstances, even when he was enjoying a relaxing evening in an inn. Riza was already ready, dressed identically. She handed him his belt, which he fastened around his waist with a nod of thanks. As soon as he regained the familiar weight of his sword against his hip, the vague uneasiness that had invaded Roy when he woke up disappeared. He couldn't let go. He was the Paladin of Truth. He was the Flame. No one could, even for a moment, think that he had the slightest weakness.

“Let's go,” he declared firmly.

  
  


The room at the inn had filled up considerably. Most of the tables were occupied and a joyful hubbub filled the atmosphere. In a corner of the room, on a vaguely raised stage, a man was playing the lute without worrying about the absence of spectators. At some tables, dice were played; at others, a meal was shared.

Roy's heavy iron boots coming down the stairs slowly silenced everyone. Eyes were inevitably on them as they crossed the room to a free table in a corner. Roy ignored them superbly and sat with his back to the room, while Riza sat against the wall, keeping an eye on the rest of the assembly. An almost religious silence had been imposed, until one of the men present in the room raised his mug.

“The Flame and the Hawk!" he said in a loud voice, imbued with respect and admiration.

Roy closed his eyes when the rest of the room took up the sentence in chorus. He felt Riza get up and bowed to the assembly and with a sigh, he raised one hand to greet without turning around.

“Praise Central,” he grunted as he looked at the plate the waitress had just put in front of him.

Riza shrugged her shoulders and began to eat.

“It's not bad," she said.

“I wasn't talking about the quality of the food,” Roy replied. “I'm just tired of eating more dust during the day than this bowl can hold.”

The bowman chuckled a small laugh.

"And when it rains, you'll complain that it strains the joints of your armour," she predicted.

The knight glared at her.

“Is that insolence, Hawkeye?”

She gave him a disarming smile and just kept eating. Roy attacked his own share of stew and had to admit that this was not the worst inn they had ever been to. The room was clean, the beds were flea-free and the food was perfectly acceptable. If only the mission wasn't so long and dull, he wouldn't hate the trip, but since they had left Central a few months earlier, he felt as if nothing had progressed. They weren't even on their way home...

They finished their plates in silence, each absorbed in their own reflections. While Riza brought the two empty bowls back, Roy crossed the room towards the stairs, ready to go for a good night's rest. They had camped several nights in a row before reaching Liore and spending a few hours in a real bed sounded like paradise. But as he walked past the small stage, he heard a few words of a conversation that made him listen. The lute-player had abandoned his instrument and was conversing in a low voice with two men.

  
  


“ ... the coat of arms of Xerxes, absolutely. And the armour was moving, completely empty. Some even say that a terrible voice came out of the helmet.”

Roy raised an eyebrow, stopped and turned around, approaching the small group at the table near the stage. He pulled out the free chair and settled down, expression imperturbable, while the three men watched him in an uncomfortable silence. The knight let a corner of his mouth stretch out in a half-smile that was not very encouraging.

“Xerxesian armour, really?” He asked in false amazement. “What metal would be strong enough to survive a millennium of neglect?”

The bard bowed his head gracefully.

“Forgive me, my lord, I'm afraid I'm not very familiar with that topic. I wouldn't dare to decide what is possible or not, I'm only passing on a story that has been told to me.”

Roy looked for the waitress and snapped his fingers to get her attention. A brief spark had ignited, earning muffled exclamations from his table companions.

“A drink for my friends and an extra mug," he asked when the woman came up to him. “Paid by Truth,” he added, handing her a coin, but his gaze was fixed on the musician.

The message was clear and Roy knew that no one would dare to lie directly to a paladin of Truth - much less to the one nicknamed the Flame. He waited patiently for the waitress to come back with a full jug and filled the four mugs himself with the thick brown beer.

“Well, let's get on with it,” Roy resumed as if nothing had happened. “This story sounds exciting and my trip is boring. Distract me.”

“The story is old, my lord,” said the bard after taking a long gulp from his mug. “I got it from my cousin, who himself knew it through one of his friends; its truthfulness therefore depends only on the honesty of its storytellers. I shall deliver it to you as I have been told, but I cannot promise you that it has not been embellished.”

“Spare me your apologies. I'm here to listen to a story, not to pass judgment,” Roy interrupted him. “Unless you feel guilty about its content?”

“Not at all, my lord,” smiled the storyteller. “Well, let's begin. This story would have happened just two or three years ago, in a small village in the Duchy of the East. Almost in the south, in a narrow valley close to the border of the homeland of the heretics, the abominable Ishval, lies a village called Resembool."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had some trouble with the "vivement central" part. Settled for "praise central". it's a somewhat established saying about Paris but... yeah basically he wants to be back home in good ol central where there's no dust in the air... eh i tried

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Consider leaving Kudos or a comment on the original too!


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